


Public Decency

by sweetcupncakes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, I have no shame, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Blow Jobs, Restaurants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-07
Updated: 2014-02-07
Packaged: 2018-01-11 13:16:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1173500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetcupncakes/pseuds/sweetcupncakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John watches pale eyes track the movement of waitstaff and patrons alike, then he sees the upward twitch to Sherlock’s lips and suddenly John is climbing down to get his napkin.  It must look hilarious, like when kids drop the crayons under booths and go in after them.  Ah, well.<br/>-----------------------</p><p>A one word prompt for "restaurant" because.. penises etc.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Public Decency

**Author's Note:**

  * For [christyimnotred](https://archiveofourown.org/users/christyimnotred/gifts).



> I wrote this in less than 30 minutes. It is neither artful or redeemable in any way. Just porn for the sake of it.

 

 

"John," Sherlock winds the ribbon of tagliatelle around his fork, "What do you think would happen if I set this over the candle?"

John looks up, more than a little alarmed.  Sherlock inches the little spun nest of pasta toward the melting wax.  Jesus Christ..  does he mean to coat it in the stuff?  Probably.

"Don’t," John warns, heeding the mischievous glint in Sherlock’s eyes.  It would be exactly like Sherlock to conduct an experiment of pyrotechnic proportions right in the middle of the bloody entree.  "Just eat it."  

"Already finished.  I’m waiting on you,"  Sherlock passes the palm of his hand over the flame.  The disturbance causes the light to flicker and dance, casting Sherlock in a soft glow.  Shadows waver and lick at Sherlock’s neck in a way that John finds absolutely lovely.   

It’d be a great deal lovelier if Sherlock wasn’t intent on possibly setting bits of carbonara on fire.

Sherlock hovers the forkful precariously over the flame, begins lowering it when John shakes his head in disapproval.  

"Bored," says Sherlock, looking pointedly at John.

"I’m eating," and it’s rapidly becoming clear by the tone in Sherlock’s voice that Sherlock is angling for a different sort of experiment.  One that has nothing to do with pasta and candles.  John shifts in his seat, tries to ignore his Pavlovian response to  _that_ particular timbre.  

"Bored," Sherlock repeats, and John angles toward him.  Consciously.  Subconsciously.  Doesn’t matter, not when Sherlock’s eyes are hooded that way.  

"We’re in  _public_ ,” and instead of John’s voice coming out admonishing, it’s breathless and, ever so slightly, desperate.    

“ _Bored,”_ and suddenly the fork is over the flame and the smell of of burning pasta is just beginning to—

John drops his napkin.  

Sherlock lifts the scorched bit of tagliatelle away from the candle, just a little, waiting to see what John will do next.

John kicks the napkin underneath the table.

"I’ll have to get that," John announces.

"Quite right."  Sherlock gives a quick look around the restaurant.  It’s a new one they decided on randomly.  Very nice, white linen tablecloths, a crystal chandelier strung from the ceiling.  A tank full of lobsters that Sherlock looked at with a little too much enthusiasm, like he might possibly make off with it later.  A flat full of lobsters.  It wouldn’t be the strangest thing they’ve kept.  

 

 

"Are you.. are you actually taking us out to celebrate our two month  _anniversary,”_ John had asked, incredulous.  At the first month anniversary, Sherlock had declared all celebrations of the occasion, “superfluous and predictable.”  

John ended up having him over the arm of the sofa, arms pinned behind his back, wrists held firmly in John’s grasp.  Another hand buried in warm curls.  Bliss.

So all in all it was considered a win.

"Of course not.  You’re hungry, this is convenient."  

Oh, Sherlock.  Transparent.

 

 

John watches pale eyes track the movement of waitstaff and patrons alike, then he sees the upward twitch to Sherlock’s lips and suddenly John is climbing down to get his napkin.  It must look hilarious, like when kids drop the crayons under booths and go in after them.  Ah, well.  

The floors are clean, that’s nice.  Thank Christ the table cloths are long, and that their table is somewhat hidden in a corner.  John pushes himself up between Sherlock’s legs.

 

They could get caught, locked up for public indecency.  Sherlock is such a bloody prat, and it would serve him right if John—

Long fingers comes under the table, flick open the button to his trousers.  Sherlock draws himself out of his pants, and he’s already fully aroused.  John’s trepidation begins to vanish. Spidery fingers stroke over his erection.

Well, that’s certainly flattering.  

John leans forward and up, hands on Sherlock’s knees.  He licks once at the fraenulum, and immediately there are fingers in his hair.  Not pushing, which is commendable where Sherlock’s patience to get off is concerned, but tightening and holding.  John licks again, a slow stripe, bottom to top, before remembering that he can’t really take the time to be artful.

There’s no drawing out a blow job for the sake of creativity in a public space.  There will be time for Sherlock shaking, and begging underneath him later.

John dives in, wraps his lips around Sherlock and immediately begins suckling in earnest.  A noise comes from above him, metal clattering, Sherlock dropping his fork.  John hums something of a laugh, and oh, yes, that seems to do it.  Sherlock is pushing at the top of John’s skull with urgency.  Spoiled rotten.  

John tries to keep up, tries not to bang his head on the underside of their table, tries not choke, and fails at all three.  

But it doesn’t seem to matter, it only takes a sputter, a lick, and two solid sucks, and Sherlock comes with little warning at all.  Again, not surprising.

 _"You’ll swallow anyway,"_ he always says as an excuse.

 

And this is true, John is swallowing and swallowing, and when it seems Sherlock has settled he pulls off with a soft  _pop_.  Sherlock’s hand falls heavily out of John’s hair, pets his cheek.

John pinches the inside of his thigh in retaliation of Sherlock’s unsurprisingly rude blow job etiquette.  Begins crawling out from underneath the table to—

Their server, as if directed by fate itself, walks up right at that moment with the dessert menu.  Eyes wide, mouth opening at what must be John’s tousled hair and bruised lips.

John laughs awkwardly, stands and looks quickly to Sherlock who can only seem to pant and blink.  His cheeks flushed pink, lower lip shiny from being bitten to keep himself quiet.  

 

John sucks his lips in, gestures toward their leftovers, “Can we get a to go box?”


End file.
